


A tourist in the waking world

by spooningwithisa (upriserseven)



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: Doppelganger, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upriserseven/pseuds/spooningwithisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florence meets her doppelgänger and satisfies her curiosities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A tourist in the waking world

**Author's Note:**

> Florence was in Florence, Italy this week. This (obviously) started a "FLORENCE IN FLORENCE" joke, which in turn led to me planning a ridiculous doppelsex fic. Which somehow stopped being as ridiculous as initially planned and led to... well, this.

This was so wrong. This was so weird. Nobody in their right mind would actually do this. But Florence couldn’t be deemed entirely in her right mind, and curiosity was always going to get the better of her. Most people would’ve freaked out, probably, upon meeting their doppelganger. But Florence? It awakened a few fantasies she honestly didn’t know she had.

She’s maybe a little older than Florence, and her hair is darker, almost black. But it’s uncanny, really. She has the same little crook in her nose, the same dark sparkle in her eyes, and the same soft strength to her jawline. She’d managed to turn heads when she walked in the room. Not, as Rob had suggested, because she looked so much like the new found superstar who was already there, but because she had that same air of elegant passion, the same presence as her redheaded counterpart. The same ability to gain the attention of everybody in the room, sexuality be damned. 

She’d approached Florence, which was undoubtedly part of the attraction. She’d walked straight up to her and said “I, personally, get asked this question all the time but… are you Florence Welch?” and the broad smile that accompanied it instantly had Flo weak at the knees. She’d tried not to look into how much of a narcissist that made her.

And now, just an hour or so later, her back was against the cold wall of her hotel room and a body that was identical to her own was pressed so close she could feel its pulse. She couldn’t help but wonder if they kissed the same, these techniques, these swift strokes of the tongue, this soft exploration. Did she do this? Was she capable of making someone feel this way? She let out a small gasp as she felt hands move slowly down her sides, taking their time to remember each and every inch of her. Florence wasn’t the only one who was curious, who was wondering if this is what her lovers felt when they were with her. 

That’s what kicked her into action, really.

In that moment, she stopped being passive. She stopped being kissed, and she did the kissing. She pulled the other woman towards her and tried to push all questions out of her mind. This was a unique experience, hell if she wasn’t going to savour it. Moving away slightly, she managed to get the brunette to the bed and remove her blouse in the process. She watched as the other woman grinned at her before stepping out of her dress. Before she even realised it, she felt the zip of her shorts being tugged at, and the woman in front of her was gesturing for her to take them off altogether. 

Before she knew it she was bare, and an almost identical figure was next to her (around her, on top of her, beneath her). She’d tried; really she had tried, to let the moment take her. And it had worked, in a fashion. She’d let go and she’d come apart and she’d lost herself in… well, herself. It had been intense, and she’d ridden it out until she couldn’t keep it up any longer. Florence knew that her interest didn’t really lie in being fucked by this woman; she wasn’t invested in seeing how she was going to move, feeling her own orgasm within her. She had enough experience of that. 

She wanted to see herself come, and she knew she had to admit it. 

It took her a minute, to truly comprehend what she was about to do. She thinks she whispered something about “taking it all in” before she leaned down to kiss every part of her she could reach. She spent as long as she could kissing, tasting, biting, touching, until the other woman grew impatient. So she thought of all the things she’d ever been too shy to ask for (because yes, she does get shy) and gave it all she’d got. Kept her eyes open, watched a body so like her own move beneath her. Watched as those actions began to coincide with the clenching she felt around her fingers and briefly dismissed the logical part of her brain that wonders if they taste alike. 

She knows her own orgasm is more musical. She knows how her own moans, hisses, sometimes screams, reverberate. She’s been in enough hotels, received enough dirty looks from other guests to know that she’s louder than that. She stops herself from questioning whether that’s normal, whether everybody knows so much about the sound of their own ecstasy. 

She waits until the shudders stop to pull out and reposition herself on the bed, and feels awful the second she realises she wants this woman to leave already. She doesn’t know if she can lie there and look at a mirror image of herself for too long. 

As if on cue, as if their thoughts could somehow be as similar as their appearances, the weight beside her shifts and this alternate version of her is already putting her clothes back on. When Florence pretends to protest, she simply smiles and tells her not to. They both knew they needed to satisfy their curiosities, they both knew they’d regret not fucking their doppelganger for the rest of their lives. There’s no need for either of them to pretend it was any more than that. 

Florence wraps herself in the standard-issue pristine white bedsheet, suddenly feeling very exposed as the now fully-clothed woman sits down next to her. She smiles at her again, and Florence can’t help but think that this woman is so much more beautiful than her. That maybe she’d been foolish to think they were so close to identical. She feels an arm drape around her, a soft kiss placed to her temple. 

“You know it’s going to be difficult to keep a straight face the next time somebody asks if I’m Florence Welch…” A sly smile follows, and all of Florence’s insecurities fade away. She can’t avoid the symbolism. This other-her managing to make her feel comfortable when she should be at her most vulnerable. It doesn’t matter, in that moment, whether she’s beautiful or not. It doesn’t matter at all, really. For tonight, it doesn’t matter if she’s beautiful or talented. It doesn’t matter that she has emotions she doesn’t understand, that she loves more than she’s loved. What matters is that somehow, she’s learned more about herself tonight that she ever thought she might. 

She can’t help but feel slightly sorry for those in their right mind. Those people who’d be too unnerved to sleep with their double. And for those people who may never meet theirs. 

Yeah. This was so weird.


End file.
